“Wow… They really hate them,” Kathleen says. Even though we heard many stories about the situation here, we are still surprised.
“I am glad that we left the car without being noticed,” I say. “My parent’s condo is only two blocks from here.” We get out of the alley and walk onto the street by acting like we’re locals as much as possible.
My eyes search for the condo. I miss our house and the street I grew up around. Kathleen observes the people around while memories continue their parade in my mind.
I see some people preparing posters and banners with slurs against the Republic’s management. It looks like they are getting ready for a protest.
They seem to have democratic demands, but it’s never predictable how things turn out in a widespread protest. I remember the gatherings in the first few days of the second wave. Peaceful chants were quickly replaced with deadly anarchy.
A little girl approaches us with a bouquet of daisies she probably took from the roadside bush. With a big smile on her face, she extends her hand with flowers to Kathleen.
“Ah, thank you, little queen! I love them!” Kathleen says, leaning down and taking the flowers. She fondles the little girl’s brown hair and touches her tiny shoulder.
“Where is your mom?” Kathleen asks. The little girl chuckles and runs back to a group of people preparing colorful signs. The lady the little girl had run to gives us a friendly gaze.
“You are making friends already,” I say to Kathleen sarcastically. She laughs while we continue to walk and pass by more protestors.
We are in front of the condo now. I have too many loving memories in this place. This two-story light blue house has been our family’s happy home for decades.
Its modest look and simple front yard reflect the features of a typical condo of a hard-working family living in this city. My dad owned the entire place, but we didn’t use the first floor. We had to rent it out to help pay bills.
Even though it’s getting dark, I don’t see any lights in the windows at either of the floors.
I walk to the front door and ring the doorbell.
“Hello! I am back!” I say loudly. Nobody responds. I ring the bell again. There is still no response. I look through the windows on both sides of the door. I don’t see anybody inside.
A couple walking on the street stare at us with wondering eyes.
“Do you have a key? Or is the key hidden somewhere?” Kathleen asks while looking around the front door.
“I don’t…and we don’t keep a key anywhere outside of the house,” I say. “Instead, we keep a ladder.” I smile and walk to the tree at the corner of the front yard. I move the bushes and pick up the portable ladder hidden behind them. It’s a tiny and weak ladder, but it gets the job done to reach the balcony on the second floor. I used this ladder countless times to enter the house when I was late after school. The balcony door my parents used to leave open for air circulation had been my favorite entrance to the house.
I expand the ladder and lean it toward the wall right next to the balcony. Kathleen holds it from the bottom to keep it still.
I climb up and jump over the balcony fence. I hold the ladder while Kathleen climbs up.
I look through the balcony door’s window. It’s dark inside. I knock on the door and yell again.
I try to slide the door, but it pushes back. It’s either locked or it just got stuck somehow. Even if it’s locked, I know that it’s fragile.
Kathleen gets on my side and we both try to slide it. After a strong push, we manage to break the doorknob. It slides easily this time.
“Hello! Mom? Dad? Barry?” I say. It’s quiet inside. I check the bedrooms one by one even though the house is almost dark. I can navigate through this place with my eyes closed.
All the furniture is where they are supposed to be. The kitchen sink is empty without a trace of dirty dishes. There is no clutter anywhere. I don’t see any sign of a break-in or fight. It looks as if they just went to a grocery store or somewhere else. Maybe they are out on the street and getting ready for the protest.
I go to the drawer behind the dinner table where we keep family photos. One of them shows me with my parents at my graduation. Another one is my brother’s portrait in his military uniform. An older photo shows my mom and dad at their wedding ceremony. Next to it, I see a photo of myself I had taken at work.
There is a small envelope with my name on it in front of my photo. Kathleen comes from the other side of the living room after seeing me grab the envelope.
I take the letter off from the envelope. I recognize my mother’s handwriting right away. The words are leaning to the left with long straight lines drawn for all B and D letters.
“My dear son, Matt,
I don’t know how much longer we can stay alive. I wish I was able to talk to you one more time. I wanted to let you know how much I love you. You are my kind and loving son I’ve always been proud of. I am going to see you here or in another world… I love you.”
A thin line of tears flows down from my eyes. Kathleen touches my shoulder. She hugs me when I turn around.
“I am sure they are fine…” she says.
It’s hard to control my feelings. I feel my legs getting weaker. I sit at the table and put the letter in front of me. Taking my head between my hands, I close my eyes.
It’s not the time to let myself down.
